Erik is Dead
by Silver Tallest
Summary: Those final words are uttered, so Raoul and Christine have some unfinished business to attend. Gaston Leroux inspired! Oneshot


The well furnished carriage jostled its passengers slightly as the horse trotted down the cobbled road. Christine Daae clutched at her well-used handkerchief to stabilize her rumbling emotions. Her eyes shut against the tears that were threatening, yet again, to leak out of her raw eyes. At least the violent sobbing had finally stopped.

The newly Count de Chagny reached over to console Christine, but withheld. He stopped in mid-gesture, his brows knitted in concern for his fiancée, his eyes never leaving her face. Awkwardly, he clasped his own hands together and resigned them back onto his lap. He swallowed his words of sympathy that he had tried telling her earlier, but they had brought her no comfort.

And so they swayed, side to side in their cushioned seats of the carriage, the outside noise the only thing to break out the swirling mass of thoughts in Raoul's head.

The silence between them was overbearing.

Raoul pulled back the silken curtain to gaze out of the window at the bustling streets of Paris. Vendors were shouting about their wares, people arguing over prices, children dodging between carriages either as games or as street urchins, he wasn't sure which. He always felt out of place here. Phillippe was always better at these sorts of things...

He cleared his throat at the memory of his brother, his death still too fresh in his memory. It was only 6 months ago when all that awful business befell them.

Raoul rubbed his neck unconsciously, a nervous habit he had taken up after the events of the Opera House. He never meant to do it. But he couldn't stop the nervous tick now, and he wouldn't stop soon. The trauma was buried deep.

_'And hopefully deeper after we do this fool's errand,'_ he bitterly thought to himself. He slumped against the carriage's side, angrily passing the last 24 hours in his mind.

The night before, a swarthy and commanding man appeared on their estate. The servants were concerned at the stranger's appearance at the de Chagny's estate, but Raoul had recognized the man the instant he saw him. "Nadir," Raoul had nodded to the Daroga, and by the Persian's expression, he knew he had serious information to tell the Count. It was news they had all been waiting for a while for, but were none too prepared for it.

"Erik is dead."

Christine had the misfortune of being near the receiving parlor when the Daroga uttered his important news. The shattering of her china told Raoul that she had heard. Raoul had nodded, condolences were murmured, and Nadir had taken his leave. He gave a knowing nod to Raoul, and said in a commanding to not to him, but rather to Christine, "you know what you must do."

And she did.

Within moments, the manor was in a hurried state of activity with eerie silence. Their servants were mopping up the spilt tea and shattered china. Christine emerged to see Raoul, her face a ghastly pale. Raoul wrapped his arms around his beloved and whispered endearments to her. "I'm so sorry, little Lottie," he cooed to her, petting her mass of curls to soothe her. "Whatever you need, just say the word and I-"

She did not return his embrace, but simply stood in his hold, her arms hanging limply by her sides as her body trembled. Her mouth was clamped shut and she nodded with the briefest tilt of her head. Her blue sparkled with flooding tears.

Christine swallowed hard and without speaking, left Raoul's embrace and slowly, as if she were floating, made her way to her room.

Only when she slowly closed and locked the door, did the piercing wail begin. The wrenching sound of mourning.

Raoul could do no more that night to comfort her.

In the morning, she emerged, impeccably dressed, ready for the world like a true Comtesse-to-be. The only things that betrayed her were her pallid face, red rimmed eyes, and cracking voice. Oh how her Angel of Music scold her for it!

She informed Raoul, who was worse for wear himself, that they were to make several errands around the city, their final destination was the Opera House.

And after informing the newspapers of three simples words, "Erik is dead," in several of their prints, they were finally on their way to the Palais Garnier.

He glanced back at Christine, his thoughts swimming from the day. She still sat stoic and silent, eyes closed, clutching her handkerchief, but slightly toying with a gold band on her left hand. Raoul grimaced. He hated that ring.

The steady clomping eased to a stop and the driver opened the door to their carriage. "We've arrived, madamoi-"

"Madame," Christine corrected lightly, offering her hand to him as he helped her out. Raoul gritted his teeth but didn't say a word against it. No one other than him would think anything of that correction. To the unknowing bystander, hey were, after all, engaged to be wed, so practically married already!

Christine turned and looked back behind her at Raoul, sitting in the carriage like a petulant child, "I might be gone for some time... You know how long it is to-"

"Yes. I recall quite well when I came to rescue you," he berated her, perhaps a little too harshly. He locked eyes with Christine and his expression softened when he saw how much pain she was still in. "Which is why," he said gently, "I think I ought to go down with you and-"

Christine gently shook her head, a sad smile on her face.

"You and I both know I must do this myself," she said simply. Raoul cast his eyes down and remained in the carriage, nodding softly. She looked back at him fondly and proceeded into the remains of the Opera House.

Raoul sighed and relaxed in the closed off carriage. He felt the shifting weight of the carriage when the driver perched back on his post at the front of the vehicle. The horse whinnied lightly. White noise was all around him.

If Raoul had his way, they would have been long gone by now. His sisters and their husbands could claim the title of Count and Countess if they so desired, and break up the estate. He just wanted out of this city. _'Of __**his**__ city.'_ he cursed inwardly_. 'And to be especially away from this blasted Opera House! DAMN him! If only we could be by the ocean, somewhere nice and breezy, away from all THIS.'_

Raoul went to rub his neck, the careful tick emerging again from his anxiety when he felt the blade already pushing against his trachea. He sat paralyzed in fear as the smell of decay filled his nostrils. That all too familiar smell of the underground labyrinth that haunted his dreams every night. The wretched black mask fell away from its owner onto his lap, and a true skeleton face, devoid of any skin or human features grinned from behind him. His heart beat wildly as that horrible, sickeningly beautiful voice whispered in his ears, _"En garde, fuckboy."_

**_Author's Note: _**Yes. This was all leading up to the Skeleton Army meme. I have no regrets. The ending makes me cackle.


End file.
